“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You have the same eyes. Do you look like your father?”

“I don’t think so.” I reach for my purse and pull out the photos.

Yujun tucks the robe under his arm and flips through the images, his eyebrows arching up like Wansu’s do when he reaches her picture. Na Wansu doesn’t look much like Choi Wansu. The eighteen-year-old has long hair with bangs that are curled under. She’s wearing tight jeans with a wide brown belt and a plain blue blouse with a wide collar. If she has earrings on, I can’t make them out, but there’s a leather necklace dangling around her neck. The most shocking part of the photo is that Wansu is smiling. It’s not a big smile. There aren’t any teeth showing, but there’s a distinct upward curve of the corners of her lips. She looks happy.

“You recognize her,” I say.

“Yes. I do.”

“And if I’d shown these to you earlier, you would have told me?”

He nods. “I would have. I know that this is hard—for all of us—but once we get over the shock, it will all work out. You’ll see.”

He sounds certain and confident as he always does, and because I’m tired and it’s been a very long day, I decide not to argue with him. He lives with a certain optimism that I’m reluctant to chip away at. Why should everyone be miserable?

“Take a shower. I’m going down to the gift store to get you some clothes so you don’t have to sleep in that.”

I rub an awkward hand down my front. How terrible do I look?

“I don’t need anything fancy,” I tell him.

He allows himself a small sigh of relief, one that I might have missed if I wasn’t standing so close, if I wasn’t paying such careful attention. His broad chest expands and the urge to press my ear against his heart, allow his strong hands to clasp me close, descends. Before I can make a bad decision, I step back toward the bathroom. “And nothing too expensive because I’m paying you back.”

He gives me one of those tiny head bows and leaves. I sag against the closed door. As much as I want to think of him solely as Yujun from Seoul, the reality is that he is Choi Yujun, the stepson of my biological mother. I should be creeped out by my feelings for him. But I am not, and in the shower, with the hot water sluicing over my frame, my mind wanders. It’s the exhaustion and the loneliness. It’s the fineness of the hotel room and the scent of him lingering in the air.

I take the shower head off the wall and press it between my legs. Better to do this and get it out of my system than be a weak kitten when he returns. The water jets against me in hard pulses. My knees give out and I press my hand against the wet tile to keep me upright. The orgasm tingles along my spine only to sputter out like a fire with too little kindling. I laugh at myself and replace the shower head. God, I’m pathetic. I might as well admit that I want to screw Yujun’s brains out even though he is the kid Choi Wansu chose and even though he is only a vacation romance and even though I know everything now is so complicated. None of that really matters to my vagina.